


The Nightmare Realm

by QuenchiestCactusJuice99



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Bill Cipher Being Bill Cipher, Bill doesn’t give a shit, Bill is a landlord, Bill is shady af, Bill looks like a trashy conman, Bill probably knows, Dipper and Mabel live in Bill’s apartment complex, Ford shows up eventually I swear, Human Bill Cipher, Human Henchmaniacs, Leave the poor man alone, Lots of Cursing, NO ONE KNOWS, OR IS HE, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Stan is suspicious, Stan just wants somewhere to sleep, Who Knows?, also no one knows how old he is, an itty bit of a stabbing mention, and kind of an asshole, even though they’re like. Twelve, everyone knows Bill is involved in something illegal, he has a horrible jacket, he probably should be, he’s a troll, neither does anyone else, or are they, probably more than one illegal something, the Nightmare Realm is an apartment complex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-27 08:54:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21389476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuenchiestCactusJuice99/pseuds/QuenchiestCactusJuice99
Summary: It’s just a handshake, he tells himself, what are you getting so worked up about?He makes himself reach over and shake the kid’s hand. “Deal,” He says, and it feels eerily final as it passes his lips.“Welcome to the Nightmare Realm, stranger,” The kid returns, a nasty sort of satisfied smirk on his would-be pretty boy face.Or: Bill is a landlord that might or might not be a demon in disguise, Stan finally gets an honest job, and Bill’s jacket is a menace that must be destroyed.
Relationships: Bill Cipher & Dipper Pines, Bill Cipher & Mabel Pines, Bill Cipher & The Henchmaniacs, Dipper Pines & Mabel Pines
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	The Nightmare Realm

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello hello! I noticed a tragic lack of the exact story I wanted to read, so I’ve taken the time and effort (not that much of either was spent on this) to write it myself! Now, if you read my other stuff for some unfathomable reason, you might be thinking - hey, Cactus, why aren’t you working on, like, *anything* else? And, okay, basically, it goes like this - I... haven’t gotten around to it? Yeah, the answer is I suck at deadlines and also consistency. I was meaning to get the second chapter of Project Jinchuuriki up within two weeks of the first, and that... well, as you can see, it didn’t happen. Whoops. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Stan is wandering the streets with a set to his step and a purposeful expression that makes it seem like he’s going somewhere when he picks up on the fact that he’s being watched.

It’s not a surprise that someone saw through his ‘places to be’ facade, actually - after all, if anyone followed him for long enough they’d see his aimless wandering for what it was - but it’s not especially good news for Stan.

He’d finally found a job, too. One that didn’t require being lookout for bank robberies or bait for an ambush between gangs. Stanley Pines - or, Duncan Lextol, as he went by in this state - finally had an honest job. Who’da thunk it?

Not him. Probably not anyone else, either. But he’d done it, and it wasn’t even a really shitty job like he’d been expecting to get. He was good at repairs, and however rundown, a mechanic shop wasn’t half bad. It was so not-half-bad that he kind of wanted to keep it. So he was crossing his fingers and daring to hope that he might not mess this one up.

Hoping was setting yourself up for disappointment, was his usual philosophy. But he couldn’t really help himself, this time.

Ironically enough, he’d met the owner of the repair shop because his car had broken down right in front of it. He’d have fixed it himself, but the owner - Rex, his name was - insisted even after Stan had told him he didn’t have the money to afford repairs from anyone but himself.

Then he’d gone on to invite Stan to work for him if he was going to be in town for a while. “I’ve got some projects that need to be finished soon,” He’d said, “I need an extra set of hands if I want them done on time.”

Which was good. Very good. Except that he couldn’t exactly spend the night in his car like he’d been planning, what with it being in the shop. A motel would be a good place to crash if he could  _ find _ one, but for all the wacky stuff they did have in this town, he had yet to do so.

Which brought him to aimlessly wandering until he could find a semi-suitable alley to sleep in. Except that’s also out of the picture until no one is following him anymore.

Getting stabbed into wakefulness is not high on the list of experiences Stan is keen to repeat.

He’s not an amateur though, and he manages to catch a glimpse of his pursuer. Or, as it happens, pursuers.

It’s two little fucking kids, way too good at staying out of sight and keeping track him to be just some curious brats. Is someone after him already? He’s been in town what, five hours? Maybe that’s a record.

It’s smart, he thinks, having kids be the ones to follow or maybe herd the victims of whatever this is to wherever they wanted them. People were naturally more inclined to trust kids, or at least most people thought they weren’t worth being suspicious of.

Not gonna lie, it’s ramping up his paranoia. He doesn’t know if they’re trying to get him anywhere but if they are, there’s no way to tell if he’s heading right where they want him. Which is not exactly a comforting thought. In fact, it’s pretty much-ly the opposite.

The only thing he can do right now is keep moving, whistling cheerfully. Confidence goes a long way, further than most assume, even if it doesn’t go as far as some would like. 

He expects a trap. Or to keep up their little game of keep-away for a while. He doesn’t expect them to just... leave their hiding spot and come up to him.

If he’s being entirely honest with himself - and he’s usually very good at not doing that - he almost runs. He has to be more than ten years their senior, they’re still  _ tiny _ \- was he ever that small? - and there’s no way they’d catch him alone. What are they, eight? Ten?

Point is, small enough to outrun. But if he’s being entirely honest with himself - and he’s usually very good at not doing that - he... can’t.

They’re twins.

What a fucking  _ curveball.  _ Way to go, life, succeeding in brutally destroying his ability to do much other than stare as they stand in front of him, arguing silently, trading looks and little gestures, like he and Ford-

Twins. What kind of bad joke is this?

Scratch that, his entire  _ life _ is one bad joke. Is this really anything other than dumping a metric fuckton of salt on the stab wound?

The boy twin clears his throat, looking uncomfortable.  _ That makes two of us, kid,  _ he thinks, because the girl twin is grinning ear-to-ear. Looks like she won the argument.

“Hi there! I’m Mabel, this is Dipper!” Jesus Christ, did their parents hate them? Not that he’s one to talk.

“We saw you looking around and it looks like you need a place to stay!”

If that didn’t spell trouble. “No, I’ve got it figured out.” They’re trying to scam him, then? Murder him, maybe. 

The girl twin pouts. “No you haven’t. I know for a fact that this place doesn’t have any motels at all.”

Now that just sets off all sorts of red flags. “That’s a terrible layout for a town. Who does that? And I actually do have something figured out, Maddie.”

The girl frowns at him. The boy twitches. “Mabel.”

Stan rolls his eyes. “Yeah, whatever.”

The girl stomps her foot and the boy inches backwards, shooting Stan a look like  _ you’re on your own here. _

Great. Tantrum-thrower? “You’re  _ not _ sleeping in an alley somewhere! A friend of ours has places you can stay and it’s not expensive!”

“Apartments, Mabel,” The boy mutters tiredly, exactly like Ford used to back when he and Stan still spoke, and fuck that aches in Stan’s chest like a stone is sitting on his lungs. The kid’s tone sours a little. “And  _ friend _ isn’t exactly the word I’d use.”

Stan doesn’t like the sound of this apparent not-friend of theirs but it’s a peripheral thing because he can’t seem to focus anymore. What, he meets twins and he can’t  _ think?  _ Pathetic.

“Oh please, bro-bro, it’s not like he’s  _ that _ bad.” She pauses. Then mumbles, “Well, he’s not stab-you-in-your-sleep bad. I mean, as far as I can remember. But come on, just talk to the guy, mister! It’s better than sleeping on the ground!”

Without waiting for an answer, she grabs one of his hands and starts pulling him down the street. The boy sighs but grabs his other hand, helping his sister even though Stan is more than sure he thinks it’s a dumb idea.

Fucking  _ parallels. _ Stan hates this.

He lets them pull him down the street anyway.

XxXxXxXxXOoOoOoOoO 

Stan would like to say that he thinks his sense of self-preservation, despite the quick and terrible fate of his morality, shame, and respect for the law and/or authority figures, is still quite intact.

This same sense of self-preservation has kept the number of jails he’s been incarcerated in at the semi-respectable number of three. It’s also given him a rather nifty sense for when he’s being conned or dealing with someone... less than reputable, respectable, or willing to uphold bargains as agreed.

This sense has saved him many a time, as he has run into a plentiful amount - more than his fair share, he would say - of con artists in his time. And honestly, this guy is checking too many points off the list for Stan to be entirely comfortable. Not that he’s ever comfortable around unknowns. But even less comfortable than usual.

He’s younger than Stan, definitely - can’t be older than twenty-four - so Stan feels justified in calling him a kid, because if he had to guess he’d aim a lot closer to nineteen than twenty-four.

Anyway - the kid had dyed the top of his mop of brown hair an obnoxious blond, and has a few sparse freckles sprinkled over his nose too but they do nothing to negate the effect of the sleazy grin stretched out to show his insufferably white teeth.

He’d reclined sideways in his chair immediately after they’d entered his ‘office’, thin legs swung over the arm. He’s tall and lanky and twirls his stupid black - gold-capped, and if that didn’t scream pretentious - walking stick with an amount of ease that said he probably practiced in front of the mirror every morning. Not to mention the truly tacky yellow suit jacket that  _ had _ to be custom-made he was wearing over a black button-down and dress pants. 

Now, Stan has probably zero legs to stand on with that judgement, but when he said tacky, he didn’t mean his own days of  _ ugh this guy is a walking fashion disaster  _ tacky, he meant  _ oh god why kill me now or at least blind me out of mercy  _ tacky.

The bottom half of the jacket has designs like bricks running up to the chest with fancy black lines running around the buttons. Little blue flames decorate the hem. The buttons are shaped like triangles. The entire thing shines like it’s covered in glitter. And there’s a circle stitched into the back with a buncha weird symbols and a triangle in the middle.

All in all, an abomination that Stan had never expected to face but one he never wants to look at again. Also, the kid had a black eyepatch lined in gold over his left eye. And a ridiculous little black bow tie.

And lastly, the icing on the fucking cake, the goddamn top hat. Black and wrapped with a gold ribbon, also sparkling, the kid continuously swept it off and replaced it while he was talking, alternating with spinning his stupid baton thing.

The drama of it all basically shouted from the rooftops that this guy was pretty much the definition of trickster, or backstabber, or thief or something along those lines. Stan has a sense for these things. 

Or maybe con-artists are incapable of subtlety. 

It’s kind of a tossup. He too is a con-artist after all, and he isn’t exactly subtle himself.

Stan wouldn’t even  _ be _ here if not for the two nosy little kids - Dipstick and Maple Syrup, or whatever they said their names were - that had essentially dragged him up to this very untrustworthy-looking, slightly older kid and asked to keep him like some sort of pet. 

Apparently, the nasty slimeball-vibe kid was the landlord of a shitty hole-in-the-wall apartment complex called the ‘Nightmare Realm’, which reminded Stan of the more... unfortunate commercials from his past and only added to the ‘conman’ column.

Personally, Stan wanted to call bullshit, but  _ damn _ rent here was cheap and there didn’t seem to be any immediate drawbacks. And he could always skip town when he inevitably messed up or made someone angry. He was reasonably sure he wouldn’t be murdered the first night because he’d seen other, er... patrons wandering the halls, so he knew it wasn’t a front for a murderer to get easy victims.

Most notably, they’d passed a girl with her hair dyed bright pink and styled in spikes, arms tattooed with pink flames from wrist to shoulder and a large, wide open eye tattooed on her forehead. The kid’s only greeting had been a cheery, “Morning, Pyronica!” despite it being eleven at night, and had lead Stan to wonder if everyone living in this building had parents who hated them.

“So,” The kid drawls, bringing him back to the present, and that’s another thing. The kid’s  _ voice _ gives him the heebie-jeebies, and Stan isn’t even sure why. “Do we have ourselves a  _ deal, _ then?”

The kid reaches a hand over the desk between them, eyes lit with a disturbing sort of excitement. The way he says  _ deal _ puts a bad feeling in the pit of Stan’s stomach, and the sight of the kid’s thin, outstretched arm makes him hesitant for some reason.

_ It’s just a handshake, _ he tells himself,  _ what are you getting so worked up about? _

He makes himself reach over and shake the kid’s hand. “Deal,” He says, and it feels eerily final as it passes his lips.

“Welcome to the Nightmare Realm, stranger,” The kid returns, a nasty sort of satisfied smirk on his would-be pretty boy face.

“Oi,” Stan crosses his arms, the hand he’d used to shake the kid’s hand tingling slightly. He doesn’t like this at all. “What’s your name, anyway?”

The kid’s smirk deepens a little bit, like something dangerous is lurking behind his clean white teeth. “Bill,” He says, deliberate and weighty in a way that hints at significance.

“Bill Cipher.”

**Author's Note:**

> Go ahead and leave a comment down below if you’re comfy with that! I’d like to know what you think!


End file.
